


Masquerade

by colonel_bastard



Series: A Symphony of Scars [5]
Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Community: disney_kink, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossdressing, Disguise, Internal Conflict, M/M, Masks, Surprise Kissing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You seem to forget that this is a masquerade.” Basil smirks. “We’re all allowed to be someone else for a night."</i>
</p><p>Basil and Ratigan attend a masquerade ball, and Basil gets a little carried away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Prompter at [disney_kink](disney-kink.livejournal.com) wanted Basil to go undercover in drag at a masquerade ball, only to run into Ratigan. Flirting ensues.
> 
> If you'd like to see their masquerade costumes, the talented [kiki564](http://kiki564.livejournal.com/) drew [this beautiful illustration!](http://kiki564.livejournal.com/8259.html)
> 
> Set after the events of [Discombobulate.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3326426)

-

-

-

They’re all laughing at him, Basil knows, but he’s long ago learned not to care what the police think. If he cared, he might crumble under the accusations of recklessness, the insinuations of egomania, and worst of all, the whispered speculations of madness. They murmur amongst themselves as he walks past, and some days it’s all he can do to hold his head up high and carry on with his work. He tells himself that they only despise him because of his astonishing success rate, because he’s making them all look like an incompetent band of thugs while he— one that was cast out of their ranks— is called upon by lords and ladies to solve their troubles. They can’t stand that he’s turned out to be such a triumph, so if they can’t see him fail, they can at least make him miserable. 

It was with an unmistakably reluctant tone that his former commanding officer Walsh, no longer a sergeant but a superintendent, called upon Basil for his inimitable brand of assistance. Lord Eckley had contacted the police regarding a series of threats he had received upon his person and possessions. He was due to host his annual New Year’s masquerade ball but had been issued a series of warnings regarding a villain’s intentions to use the event as a means to plunder Eckley Manor. Canceling the ball is out of the question— it is widely considered one of the highlights of the social season. Naturally the only thing to do is keep calm and carry on, taking precautions wherever possible. Lord Eckley had rather hoped that Scotland Yard could provide a few capable fellows to keep an eye on things from the inside. When it comes to spotting suspicious characters, none have a keener eye than Basil of Baker Street, and as much as it pained him, Walsh found himself turning to his disgraced former subordinate for help. 

From the look on his face as they arrive at Eckley Manor, it’s quite obvious that Walsh already regrets his decision— but Basil just grins and chucks him under the chin, refusing to let anyone make him feel self-conscious. 

“I’d say it gives me the element of surprise,” he indicates his disguise. “Don’t you think?”

The other officers, dressed variously as harlequins and princes, don’t know whether to laugh or simply stare in wordless confusion. Basil has chosen for his masquerade attire a gown of rich blue silk, bustled in the back and trimmed at the sleeves and bodice in black lace. He wears black gloves that extend to his elbows, and both his mask and coronet are made of feathers as dark as pitch. Walsh, outraged, starts to bluster his disagreement, but Basil silences him with a decisive gesture. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve considered how suspicious it would look,” he points out. “If half a dozen men simply wander about the ballroom with neither partner nor purpose? I was under the impression that our objective was to be discreet and observant. Consider this,” he gestures grandly at his livery. “A cloak of invisibility. A lady without a companion is expected to search for a dance partner. A gentleman alone is expected to stand idly by and observe.”

“A gentleman is also expected to dress as a gentleman,” one constable mumbles. “So you’ve no right to lecture us on what's proper.”

“You seem to forget that this is a masquerade.” Basil smirks. “We’re all allowed to be someone else for a night. If you object to my methods, that’s all very well. I only ask that I be allowed to enter on someone’s arm— I don’t want to give the first impression of a lady who travels alone. Once we’re inside, you are free to shun me to your heart’s content, as I know you are more than accustomed to doing so.” 

There’s a sour murmur of protest from the group, but as Basil turns up his nose and prepares to abandon them entirely, Walsh gives an exasperated groan. 

“All right, all right,” he huffs, and crooks his arm in Basil’s direction. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Thank you, Superintendent,” Basil sniffs as he slips his arm around the other’s. “It’s such a relief to know that chivalry can still be found in these trying times.” 

At the detective’s suggestion (or rather, insistence), the officers separate and enter the ball in staggered times and groups, first a pair, then one alone, and then a group of three. Basil and Walsh go in last, and as they cross the marble foyer and descend the grand staircase, he can feel the superintendent’s arm shaking slightly with embarrassment. The moment they reach the ballroom, Walsh gives Basil a civil nod of the head before releasing him and hurrying away into the crowd, leaving the detective, as he had planned from the start, to his own devices. 

Walsh needn’t have been so nervous. Although his identity was obvious to the officers who were expecting him, Basil’s disguise is impeccable, and to the uninformed observer he merely presents a picture of yet another masked lady among a sea of perhaps a hundred guests. Basil’s moderate height and unusually slender frame lend themselves well to feminine impersonation, and with a bit of padding at the hips and bosom, he cuts quite a lovely figure. The constables sneered at him, but really, Basil sees no reason to feel foolish. The more effective the mirage, the easier it is for him to do his job, and when it comes to his work, Basil has no sense of shame whatsoever. 

He makes his way through the crowd, scanning faces, reading body language, his eyes and mind working in tandem and at incredible speed. The guests are the expected assortment of lords and ladies, and although most are wearing masks, Basil recognizes a few of them from various cases he has worked over the years. Lady Cunningham— he found her missing emeralds in the clutches of a greedy chambermaid. Lord Fairclough— Basil cleared his name after a blackmailing attempt nearly ruined him. 

A figure dressed all in crimson suddenly catches his eye, and although he’s masked, his identity is instantly unmistakable to Basil’s well-trained eyes. If his broad-shouldered build and arrogant body language didn’t give him away, his serpentine tail certainly would— it’s Ratigan, carrying on an enthusiastic conversation with a jester and an Egyptian queen who clearly have no idea that they’re speaking with London’s most notorious criminal mastermind. 

It would seem that Basil has found their villain for the evening. He checks the ballroom for the other officers, but they’re scattered to various corners and none close enough to be discreetly alerted of the threat. Very well. Basil shall simply keep a close eye on the rat and give him no opportunity for foul play. 

And how better to observe him than to approach him directly? Trusting his disguise and the general anonymity that all large crowds provide, Basil closes the distance between them and stands within earshot. Although he had hoped to merely eavesdrop, he unfortunately catches Ratigan’s eye in turn, and the rat discards his previous conversation partners without a second thought and turns his attention towards the newcomer, an intrigued smile curling under his bone-white mask. 

Rather than give him the opportunity to instigate conversation, Basil would rather be in control, and he says in a soft voice, “I don’t mean to offend, but I couldn’t help but notice your costume. Who are you meant to be?” 

Ratigan glances down at his scarlet finery, trimmed in gold and black, and explains, “I had intended to personify Red Death, although I will admit it is a rather more dashing interpretation than one is accustomed to.” 

_How appropriate,_ Basil thinks, _That he should advertise himself as the famous unwanted guest at a masquerade ball._

“How strange,” he says aloud. “I was also thinking of Poe when I dressed this evening.”

“Now, with that clue, the obvious guess would be Annabel Lee, or perhaps even Lenore herself.” Ratigan tilts his head with a surprisingly thoughtful expression. “But I don’t think that’s what you intended.”

“Well-guessed, Death,” Basil allows. “But then who am I?”

“I believe,” the rat approaches, close enough to offer his hand. “That you are the Raven.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Basil accepts the gesture with his own and says, “True enough. I suppose it takes one spectre to recognize another.” 

“Then perhaps,” Ratigan presses a chivalrous kiss to the back of Basil’s gloved hand. “You shall do me the favor of a dance. I would be honored to take the floor with a lady such as yourself.”

It would seem that Basil has gone unrecognized. He had feared that his voice would betray him, but rather than attempt any sort of falsetto, he has elected simply to speak in a soft, almost whispered tone, and it serves him well enough. Ratigan’s eyes are not as sharp as they normally appear— perhaps he has partaken of the champagne, which famously flows with a Dionysian recklessness at this particular ball. Either way, it is Basil’s objective to give him neither the time nor the freedom to perpetrate any kind of heist tonight, and surely there is no closer sentry position than to be his dance partner for the evening. Although a chill runs down his spine as he says it, he can nonetheless hear himself murmur, “Very well.” 

They reach the dance floor as the previous song comes to an end. The guests applaud the band— really, a small orchestra (Lord Eckley spares no expense)— situated at the far end of the hall. Dancers take their positions in anticipation. Ratigan places his right hand at the small of his partner’s back, and even through the restrictive lacing of his gown, Basil can feel the warmth of his touch. He reaches up and lays his own hand on Ratigan’s shoulder, and those who mocked him for learning both sides of ballroom dancing would now be biting their tongues, for his form is flawless. Ratigan extends his left arm and leaves the palm upturned and waiting, and with a confident smile that hides his anxiety, Basil places his other hand into his grasp. 

Like a completed circuit, energy courses through the both of them, and in response, Ratigan gently but firmly pulls Basil just a little bit closer. The music begins, a waltz, and together they glide out onto the floor and allow themselves to be swept up in the tide. 

It’s no surprise to discover that Ratigan is an excellent dancer. He moves with effortless grace and has a commanding physical presence that guards their portion of the floor from intrusion by any other couple. They must look quite an intriguing pair, the midnight blue of Basil’s gown against the blood red of Ratigan’s ensemble, and both of them trimmed in black. It’s almost as if they intended to match, and rather than be repulsed by such an idea, Basil finds himself rather amused by it. 

“You’re smiling, my dear,” Ratigan notices immediately, not losing a step. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I was merely thinking what a spectacle we must be,” Basil says honestly. “Red Death and the Raven, waltzing near the stroke of midnight.” 

“Poe would be proud of us.” 

“I should hope so.”

Ratigan’s arms are strong and sure. Although he had intended to maintain a modest distance, Basil finds himself unconsciously closing it, allowing himself to be drawn deeper into the villain’s embrace. The waltz itself has a certain melancholy tone, of the sort that one would imagine to be played in a haunted ballroom— a perfect choice for this midnight masquerade, and even more fitting for the two of them, who have each haunted the other for so long. 

Basil knew the risk in accepting this dance. It comes too soon after his latest nightmarish experiment, the brazen incident in Ratigan’s lair that left him consumed with rage and self-loathing for weeks. It was a very rare moment of weakness, and he had only just begun to consider himself back in control of his faculties when he took this assignment. Had he known that Ratigan was to be their target, it’s very likely that he never would have agreed to come. He doesn’t trust himself in close proximity to Ratigan, and, if tonight’s folly is any indication, he has good reason for it. It’s too easy for him to see Ratigan as he wishes he was, instead of as the monster he already knows him to be. 

Or perhaps the real danger is that he sees the monster and accepts the dance, anyway. 

By the time the waltz reaches its conclusion, Basil realizes he is pressed against Ratigan, body to body, separated only by the weight of their masquerade attire and the twin thin layers of their matching black gloves. 

“You dance beautifully, my lady,” Ratigan nods graciously, seemingly unfazed by their close proximity. 

“And you as well, dear sir,” Basil answers, taking two steps back for safety. “But I’m afraid that’s enough for me. I feel in need of refreshment.”

“Shall I fetch you something?” the villain offers, leading Basil protectively off the dance floor. “Say the word and you shall have it.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t want to impose on your evening,” Basil tries not to betray his nervousness. “I can manage, thank you.”

Ratigan is a creature of impeccable manners, and he knows better than to press his attentions when they’re not wanted. He gives a polite nod and again draws Basil’s hand up to his lips for a light kiss. 

“Very well, then,” he smiles. “Perhaps another dance after midnight, then?”

“Perhaps,” Basil agrees, desperate to placate him and get away. 

“I shall hold you to it, dear lady,” Ratigan warns, before allowing himself to be carried away in the crowd. 

The mission is to observe and allow no room for sinister deeds. However, if Basil does not take one moment to collect his wits and calm his nerves, he fears he may lose control of himself entirely. He wants to scream, he wants to slap himself in the face for being so reckless, for allowing himself to sink into the arms of a creature he despises so thoroughly. He curses the fact that his broken tail has healed— in the early days after his escape, he would intentionally strike the wound to punish himself with blasts of almost unbearable pain. He makes his unsteady way over to the nearest banquet table and attempts to soothe his anxiety with a glass of champagne. From the mere taste of it he manages to deduce its origin and year of production with enough accuracy to convince himself that his mind is still functioning to satisfaction. 

When he returns to the revelry, he realizes that Ratigan has vanished. 

“Confound it,” he hisses to himself. 

The dance floor is even more crowded than before. Basil is working his way impatiently through the densely-packed revelers when he suddenly hears a hundred voices call out, “Ten, nine, eight...” He turns and notices the massive clock hung at the apex of the hall, a scarce handful of seconds from the New Year. All around him, couples are clasping each other tightly, everyone riveted on the second hand as it marches towards the hour. 

“Seven, six, five, four...”

Of course. This is the perfect time for the threatened heist. Every single person in the manor house is in the ballroom, every single set of eyes focused on the time— Ratigan has surely slipped away to commit his crime, and Basil lost his focus just long enough for him to make his perfectly-timed exit. It’s infuriating. By the time the peak of the festivities has passed, the villain will surely be long gone, his pockets brimming with the contents of Lord Eckley’s safe and silver cabinets. 

“Three, two, one—!”

As the clock strikes midnight with a tremendous tolling of the bells, a powerful grip suddenly seizes Basil’s arm and spins him around. It’s Ratigan, bringing one hand swiftly to the nape of Basil’s neck and the other to the small of his back, and as cheers ring out around them, Ratigan dips him into a deep and passionate kiss. 

Basil’s arms are pinned between them, caught against Ratigan’s broad chest, and in a wild spasm he grabs the lapels of his crimson jacket and pulls him even closer. He surrenders to the masquerade, to the mask, to the midnight fever that allows him to want this, to open his mouth and allow Ratigan to push his strong, hot tongue inside. They kiss like true lovers, and for that insane moment they are, and Basil can feel tears in his eyes and shame in his belly and he just doesn’t care. Tonight he is the Raven, and at the stroke of twelve he has been swept off his feet by Red Death, who, true to his literary counterpart, has proved himself to be as inescapable as he is irresistible. 

Slowly, painfully, they separate, their faces still only a fractional distance apart. Then Ratigan smiles. 

“Happy New Year, Basil,” he purrs. 

Like flash paper, anything else Basil had been feeling is swallowed up by a burst of utter shock. Ratigan chuckles at his horrified expression. 

“Now, precious,” he says, barely managing to speak around his grin. “You promised me one more dance.”

Basil attempts to recoil, even though Ratigan has quite a firm grip on him. “Never....!” he says faintly, and as anger catches up with him his voice grows stronger, and he repeats, louder, “Never!” 

He’s snarling, raising his fist to strike Ratigan in his smug face, when the rat suddenly pulls open his jacket to reveal, tucked securely in his breast pocket, a small golden bell. Basil recognizes it instantly. 

“I did bring a lady friend to the party,” the villain explains. “Unfortunately, she had to wait outside.”

 _Felicia_ — Basil cringes when he imagines the havoc that cat could wreak upon this crowd. He hopes that some day overfeeding and lack of exercise will turn the beast into something a little less formidable, but in the meantime the cat is at her peak of fitness and ferocity. If Ratigan were to summon her with that blasted bell, she could kill dozens of revelers, and if anyone would be capable of ordering such carnage, it’s the rat. 

“What do you want from me?” Basil glares. 

“Just what I said,” Ratigan says innocently. “One more dance after midnight, to celebrate another year together. Then you’re free to go.”

As if from somewhere far away, Basil can hear the band striking into another waltz, this one with a frustratingly triumphant mood. Ratigan holds out his hand, and with a helpless snarl, Basil accepts it, and together again they sweep out onto the dance floor. 

“When did you recognize me?” Basil mutters, refusing to look Ratigan in the eye. 

“My dear, I knew you from the moment I laid eyes on you,” the rat says fondly. “You are devastatingly unique.” 

Now the detective’s eyebrows raise in dawning realization, and he says distantly, “There was never going to be a heist, was there?”

“If I’d sent you a formal invitation, you never would have accepted,” Ratigan shrugs. “But I knew you could never resist a chance to play dress-up _and_ fight crime all at once. By the way,” he leans a little closer. “I meant what I said. You dance beautifully.”

And for some reason, that stings worse than any insult, perhaps because Ratigan speaks it with such sincerity. Basil tries to ignore him, as best as one can ignore a dance parter, and when the waltz finally ends, he goes to yank his hands away as quick as he can manage. Unfortunately, the villain has a very secure grasp, and when Basil attempts a pre-emptive escape, the recoil pulls him back even closer than he was before. 

“All right, Ratigan, you’ve had your fun,” he growls. “Unhand me.”

“I suppose I must,” Ratigan sighs. 

With a wicked smile, he attempts to move in for another kiss, but Basil twists his head away and says loud enough to be overheard, “My dear sir, you mustn’t impose yourself on a lady!”

At the subsequent disapproving looks, Ratigan relents, but not before he murmurs soft enough not to be overheard, “My dear Basil, I’ve never known a lady who could kiss quite so shamelessly in public.” He winks. “It would seem your tongue is capable of more than just insults and threats.” 

Not breaking eye contact, Basil calls to the crowd, “Sir, I must protest! You intrude upon my honor!”

“Here, now,” a nearby partygoer takes Ratigan’s elbow sternly. “I believe she’s made herself quite clear.”

“Clear as crystal,” Ratigan concedes, and when he releases Basil he takes a few respectful steps back in retreat. “But actions speak louder than words, and in that regard, tonight she has made herself even clearer.”

“That is no way to speak to a lady!” another guest interjects. 

But the villain has already turned to make his exit, and although they shower him with unspoken scorn and scandalized glares, they don’t know enough to stop him, and before Basil can gather up the officers to make an arrest, Ratigan has vanished into the night. 

\- - -

Back home at Baker Street, Basil stands before the fire Mrs. Judson left crackling in the hearth. She didn’t bother to wait up for him and it’s just as well— she would have been spluttering in disbelief if she’d seen him in his masquerade attire. Now he’s dressed in clothing more befitting his gender, but still too immodest to be seen by his housekeeper. Exhausted and with nerves worn thin by the night’s events, he only bothered to change into trousers and his smoking jacket, unfastened and improper, exposing his chest to the warmth of the fire. 

Ratigan’s portrait grins condescendingly at him from the mantel. From old habit, Basil brings a hand over his heart, his fingertips instinctively finding the scars that cage it. He was too ashamed then to see a doctor and instead chose to tend his own humiliating wounds, wrapping his trunk clumsily in bulky bandages that made Mrs. Judson wonder if he’d gained some weight on his skinny frame. The wounds healed messily, and though they might have faded entirely if they’d been properly stitched, now he’s stuck with these damned scars for the rest of his life, a permanent reminder of the damage Ratigan has done to him. 

It’s strange, but looking at the portrait, Basil feels no desire for justice. He feels no urge for revenge, no longing to see the villain behind bars. No— he only wants, above all things, to give Ratigan a blemish in return. He wants to mark him, so that every time Ratigan sees that mark, he will think of Basil. He will remember that Basil, too, is capable of inflicting scars. 

The echo of a waltz drifts through Basil’s sleep-deprived mind. He’s been plagued with insomnia since the incident at the lair, and he’s sure to play the violin well into sunrise. As he reaches for the instrument, his sole consolation, he realizes that he still has his mask in his hand. He stares at it, at the mask that tricked him and failed him at the stroke of midnight. Baring his teeth, he flicks it into the fireplace, and within moments the bright and brittle feathers have caught, and they flare against his eyes for one blinding instant before curling quickly, quietly, into ash. 

 

 

 

_________end.


End file.
